SOUTHERN GREENFIELDS
Mount Holly and a million words
and new South Jersey towns, all
between nothing at all : clams and
glassworks, each betokened thing,
over the ages, alas, and now gone.
The last of the baymen's huts, they
just told me yesterday, were burned
in '83; nothing else, no one else to see -
in this empty town, in this empty, barren
place, in this awful vacancy. Someone
is playing music, way out on the sand.
I hear that awful racket like it was right
here in my hand. This modern day, so
much to see, they have so much to say.
This awful town, this awful, barren
place, this empty vacancy.
Mount Holly and a million words
and new South Jersey towns, all
between nothing at all : clams and
glassworks, each betokened thing,
over the ages, alas, and now gone.
The last of the baymen's huts, they
just told me yesterday, were burned
in '83; nothing else, no one else to see -
in this empty town, in this empty, barren
place, in this awful vacancy. Someone
is playing music, way out on the sand.
I hear that awful racket like it was right
here in my hand. This modern day, so
much to see, they have so much to say.
This awful town, this awful, barren
place, this empty vacancy.
No comments:
Post a Comment